


A Better Resurrection

by OrilliaOrange



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bianca Davri makes an appearance, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-25 20:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4975348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrilliaOrange/pseuds/OrilliaOrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your soulmate's name written in their hand somewhere on your body. It is romantic, but for Cassandra and Varric, it's a burden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stargatecrazy (RegalPotato)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RegalPotato/gifts).



Her soulmate's signature blooms across her ribcage. Cassandra's always had to twist a bit uncomfortably to read it. Whoever it is, they write a fair hand; the letters unhesitatingly sprawl across her skin. It is a bold signature, Cassandra thinks.

 

The name itself adds to the romance of it all. Cassandra tries to look up surnames in her uncle's library, but he is more concerned with the dead than the living. All she knows for sure is that her soulmate is not Nevarran. Anthony teases her about it. Calls her his little bird, ready to fly far away.

 

Anthony dies. Is murdered. Cassandra wants no part of love, particularly not one preordained. The Seekers accept her petition to join them, even though she is too old. Cassandra throws herself into her work. The name emblazoned on her skin means nothing to her, stays hidden beneath her breast band. She does not speak of it, and will not look for him.

 

Years pass, and Cassandra doesn't forget the name. She learns to think around it. So it is that when she first picks up the battered copy of Hard in Hightown, she doesn't really mark the author.

 

She nearly drops it, when she realizes.

 

Varric Tethras.

 

He is an author, her soulmate.

 

With trembling fingers, she turns the book over, hardly willing to look down and see if there's a portrait.

 

Steeling her nerves, Cassandra looks down.

 

Her heart sinks.

 

The man whose sardonic eyes peer out from the painting is indeed handsome. But what causes Cassandra's heart to twist are the bevy of soft and buxom women who surround him.

 

Like the author, they are all Dwarves.

 

The Maker has a fine sense of humour, Cassandra thinks. She is among the tallest in her Order, and she is neither buxom nor soft. Her body is hard and muscled. She is forever towering over others.

 

She studies the portrait, pretending to read the little summary of the book.

 

It is embarrassing, how relieved she is that she finds Varric attractive.

 

Browsing the bookstore's stacks turns up only one other book. A romance. The cover shows a woman in full plate armour, staring outwards with bold, challenging eyes.

 

Cassandra buys both books and hides them in her saddlebags. By the time she returns to Justinia's side, both bear the marks of careful repair.

 

Leliana leaves The Tale of the Champion on Cassandra's desk.

 

She can't possibly know, Cassandra is sure of it. Leliana knows many things but surely not this.

 

The Tale of the Champion would be her favourite book, were the position not already filled by Swords and Shields. It has everything. True love, adventure, heroes triumphing over adversity, a woman who builds a family and holds on to it with both fists. Marian Hawke is a lucky woman. Cassandra hopes to meet her.

 

Justinia and Leliana have long wondered whether it would be wise to bring back the Inquisition. Whether it would quench or fan the flames that threaten to consume Thedas. When they come to her, Cassandra turns them down. She is not a leader, not the one the Inquisition would need to bring peace. Instead, she suggests Marian Hawke.

 

Leliana dispatches her spies.

 

The Chantry in Kirkwall explodes. Justinia sends Cassandra to investigate, and find the truth behind the rumours.

 

Fire rages across Thedas, and Cassandra fears what she might find in Kirkwall.

 

When the guards shove a sturdy Dwarf into the chamber Cassandra commandeered for her investigation, she cannot look at him. He is not the first she's interviewed, and many of them had a great deal to say about Varric Tethras. Not all of it was flattering.

 

Cassandra wonders if perhaps he is not her Varric.

 

She turns to meet his eyes, and the knowledge hits her in the gut.

 

He is hers.

 

****

 

Varric is used to not getting what he wants. Cassandra is the most recent in a long line of soured hopes.

 

The name coils along Varric's shoulder blade. He can never quite see it clearly- when it first appeared, he had Bartrand read it for him.

 

Cassandra Pentaghast.

 

He'd thought Bartrand made it up at first. Trust his brother to only tell the truth when it would do the most damage.

 

Varric knows the Pentaghasts are royalty from Nevarra. They slay dragons and rule over a city of corpses. They are definitely not Dwarves. That seals his fate as an outsider. All the surfacers know House Tethras' newest shame- a son whose soulmate is human.

 

It doesn't matter in the long run. If the Guild coerces a girl into marrying him, they certainly won't give a damn about soulmates. But his soulmate being human lowers Varric's marital value, Bartrand informs him sourly, and this House Tethras' value is lowered.

 

That's probably the only upside.

 

Varric has nothing against human women. They're really the same as Dwarven women, he's found. Just taller and prone to dreaming. That's what keeps him from dalliances with the taller, fairer sex. Despite what he tells Hawke. There's something unsettling about sleeping next to someone while their mind wanders the Fade.

 

Damn creepy shit.

 

Varric writes. Creates worlds where the good guys get the shit kicked out of them, where the heroes lose as much as they win. That gets to be depressing, and he writes a romance instead. Because sometimes things need to go right. Aveline goes puce when she sees the cover, and Varric didn't even know a non Qunari could go that colour.

 

He ignores the name on his shoulder. Merrill calls it spiky, when she's patching him up one day.

 

Not exactly a winning description, Varric thinks. His soulmate is probably some dour, corpse worshipping dragon fanatic who sleeps in plate armour.

 

The odds of his meeting Nevarran royalty in Kirkwall are blessedly slim. Varric becomes overly attached to the city's walls- going beyond them smacks of adventuring. If there's anything likely to bring his termagant of a soulmate crashing into his life, it's adventuring.

 

The Chantry explodes. Varric's little family scatters. He stays behind to muddy their tracks.

 

Divine Justinia sends her Right Hand, a woman Varric has only heard of in whispers. Right Hand of the Divine, Hero of Orlais, Cassandra Pentaghast.

 

Realization hits Varric like a bucket of cold water.

 

It can't be her, he reasons. If there isn't a horde of Cassandra Pentaghasts stomping around Thedas, he'll... He'll grow a beard.

 

The Templars come to get him, ugly smiles on their faces. Varric knows the type. The ones who throw their weight around in little ways, never doing quite enough to raise the suspicion of their superiors.

 

When they arrive at their destination, Varric's a little worse for wear. He's never fallen down so many stairs in his life. Terribly clumsy of him. The Templars shove him onto a chair, and leave at a look from the looming shape which resolves into a woman.

 

She stands just out of the light. At first all Varric can tell is that she's tall, even for a human, and that her spiky dark hair looks soft.

 

Still, he thinks. It can't possibly be her.

 

The Seeker turns to look at him, a sneer marring her aristocratic features, and Varric knows.

 

She's his.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bianca Davri complicates things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for Varric's personal quest.

Cassandra fights. Her life has always been a battle and this is no different. Fate has declared Varric her soulmate, but she'll be damned if she puts her heart in the keeping of a rogue.

 

They fight, the marks always hanging in the air between them. It's a line they never cross. An unspoken agreement to never acknowledge the truth. The words burn Cassandra's tongue.

 

What have I done, to deserve a soulmate like you?

 

Her heart is heavy, always. Varric does little to ease the ache, is more often the cause of it; with his quick mind and clever tongue. He unerringly finds her weak spots.

  
  


*****

  
  


Her name on his skin burns like a brand, itches like a nettles' touch. It goads him into lashing out, into using his words to hit Cassandra where he knows it will hurt. She makes small gestures and he rebuffs them. All the while Varric can feel her eyes on him, can hear the unspoken word hanging in the air.

 

Soulmate.

 

He wonders which of his sins brought him Cassandra Pentaghast.

 

He wonders why it feels like a loss, when his words make her wince.

 

***

 

The Inquisition grows, and with it Cassandra finds surcease from her pain. They are working towards a goal. Sometimes it is not so straightforward, but they are at least doing something. She throws herself into the gritty work, body and soul. At night she is too tired to think about Varric. The Inquisitor does not often bring them on missions together, for which everyone is grateful.

 

Cassandra batters herself against their enemies. Only in battle or in prayer is her heart temporarily lightened. The blacksmith has to adjust her armour, to allow for the weight she has lost and the muscle she has gained. Cassandra thinks of the soft women who flock around Varric in his author's portrait. Their sweetly rounded curves and unblemished skin, their effortless sensuality.

 

One day a Dwarven woman appears in the Great Hall. She has a sarcastic smile, and a quiet kind of grace that draws the eye.

 

Varric looks at the woman, and Cassandra's heart shatters. When he's happy, Varric's whole body shows it. He's clearly worried to find this woman waiting for him in Skyhold, but oh, behind that wariness is such warmth, such joy. Cassandra feels cold.

 

"Bianca," Varric says.

 

She'd thought it lewd, the way Varric speaks of and to his crossbow but this is worse. It is intimate.

 

No one has ever given Cassandra's name such treatment.

 

Varric introduces Bianca to the Inquisitor.

 

Cassandra returns to the training field and wonders what else she will endure.

 

*****

 

Bianca agrees to meet them in the Hinterlands. Cassandra is sick with relief. She's not sure what's worse- that she envies Varric his happiness or that she pities him for it. It seems too high a price for anyone to pay.

 

Varric is quiet on the road. Cassandra finds herself wanting to ask, but never quite doing so. Does he imagine a future with Bianca? Dream of a world where no guilds or soulmates keep them apart? What would they have done, had things been different? Cassandra tries to envision Varric married to Bianca, head of a successful house, and has to stop. The image comes all too clearly for her.

 

Cassandra spent a year in silence, but the silence between her and Varric spurs her into foolishness.

 

"I hear your Bianca is married," she says.

 

Harmless enough, she thinks. Until Varric acidly reminds her that they are not friends.

 

They ride once more in silence. Adora looks back at them from time to time. The inquisitor is far too wise and Cassandra knows she sees more than anyone thinks.

 

Bianca waits for them, and there is no mistaking Varric's eagerness. Cassandra's heart twists.

 

Beneath the earth is a city magnificent in its scope and ruin.

 

Bianca guides them, sure of step and confident in their direction. It speaks of more than a passing familiarity with the place.

 

Cassandra hates the suspicion that blooms in her heart. Writes it off as jealousy. Until she notices something else.

 

In their skirmishes with Carta thugs and Red Templars, Adora never gives the Dwarven woman her back.

 

Being right tastes sour.

 

Varric's face does not crumple. He simply looks old, though Cassandra knows he's barely older than her. Bianca's lies do not surprise him. His anger surprises her.

 

Cassandra does not stay to listen as they argue.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains no original dialogue. Only in game dialogue, belonging to Bioware.

Varric seethes. Bianca's surprise at his anger makes him livid. How could she not see. How could she have done this and not expected to hurt him?

 

Everyone is silent on the journey back to camp. Even Cassandra.

 

"You brought up Bianca, Seeker. Does that mean I can ask about your conquests?"

 

She looks up, tired eyes narrowing.

 

"I would rather you didn't."

 

Her voice is hard.

 

"No tantalizing secrets to divulge?" Varric mocks.

 

"None. I... have no conquests."

 

She hesitates, and he shouldn't pry, shouldn't push. But he wants to. They ride in silence again.

 

"How about dalliances? Liaisons? Illicit affairs?"

 

Cassandra's lips press into a thin line. Adora sends him a quelling look.

 

Varric feels like shit.

 

He can't stop thinking about Bianca. She really believed that what she'd done was for his sake. Maybe it had been.

 

Just another thing he's to blame for.

 

Like the hurt on Cassandra's face.

 

His soulmate.

 

Not for the first time, Varric wonders who's the one being punished.

 

He should apologize to Cassandra.

 

The words bunch together, clog his throat.

 

It is quiet but for the sounds of nature and their horses' hooves. Varric hates it.

 

Cassandra's horse slows, and his throat tightens. She'd looked tired when they'd set out early that morning. By now, she's probably beyond exhausted.

 

They draw closer and it becomes obvious she's waiting for him.

 

"Very well, Varric. If you wish to know about men I have known, I will tell you."

 

Fuck.

 

Fuck he doesn't want to hear this. Doesn't want to think of Cassandra as a woman, as a lover.

 

"Look, Seeker. I was only-"

 

"You were right. I pried first and fair is fair."

 

Maker he can't think about her like this.

 

Cassandra's voice is quiet, thoughtful. Varric chances a look at her face. Still the same sharp angles he's used to, but there's a softness he's never seen before.

 

It's possible he's never wanted to see it.

 

"Years ago, I knew a young Mage named Regalyan. He was dashing, unlike any man I'd ever met-"

 

She stops, and Varric thinks that's it. The way she speaks about her lover, like he was a character from one of her novels makes Varric's heart twist. Looking at her now, it isn't hard to imagine Cassandra as a young woman swept off her feet by a handsome young man.

 

"He died at the Conclave."

 

Varric's stomach drops to his boots.

 

A small, sad smile passes over Cassandra's face.

 

"What we had was fleeting, and years had passed. Still, it saddens me to think he is gone."

 

Varric searches for the right thing to say.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

His words sound hollow, but he means it. Maker he is sorry. Cassandra stays by his side, though neither of them speak.

 

Varric's surprised to find his anger and humiliation have faded away.

 

They near their camp and Varric suddenly finds he needs to tell Cassandra something. Needs to do better than _sorry_. They draw closer to camp, and Varric is running out of time.

 

"Look, Seeker. I didn't mean to make you talk about your mage friend."

 

It's probably the worst apology ever.

 

He sounds like an idiot.

 

"I know. I was not trying to make you speak of Bianca. If I was, you would know. I would yell. Books would be stabbed."

 

That startles a laugh out of him.

 

"I'll keep that in mind."

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is so happy

Cassandra's cheeks burn. The Knight Captain and her lover are about to be reunited after she'd been thought dead, and it is wonderful. It doesn't matter that she's read this chapter of Swords and Shields a thousand times before. Varric's words never fail to draw her in.

 

Of course, she never expected to be so lost in his story that Adora of all people could sneak up on her. After that, everything spirals out of her control. She knows better than to believe Adora will let this go. Weeks pass, and slowly Cassandra relaxes. Nothing has changed, though sometimes she fancies Varric watches her with laughing eyes.

 

Since Valammar, something has changed between them.

 

It's entirely probable that it's wishful thinking on her part.

 

Not that she desires Varric's good opinion. Of course she doesn't. He is only a companion. An associate.

 

Her soulmate.

 

Maker, she is a fool.

 

****

 

Varric slaves away at _Swords and Shields_. He’s always had a soft spot for it- despite writing it only to watch Aveline’s face turn that furious puce. There’s always been something fun about the series. Maybe because it’s not popular, so there’s no reason he can’t do what he wants. A daring prison break involving multiple disguises and a sword fight? Why the hell not? Two lovers constantly torn apart only to reunite for a single brief, passionate moment before fate separates them? Sure. So while he is only doing this because Adora asked, and Adora never asks for anything, it isn’t a trial.

 

_Cassandra reads your books._

 

He wonders why.

 

Of all his books, _Swords and Shields_ is by far the least liked or known. It’s barely _good_. Cassandra’s the only person he knows who’s read the damn things.

 

Varric stops, shakes his hand out.

 

If someone had asked him what book Cassandra might like, he’d have suggested one of Genitivi’s travelogues. Never one of his own books. She’s always struck him as too hard for his stuff. Too fixed in reality to bother with escapism.

 

He knows she’s read Hawke’s story, but he’d assumed it was because of the Divine, not because she wanted to.

 

Her love of _Swords and Shields_ says something about her, and Varric doesn’t want to think about that.

 

Doesn’t want to think about Cassandra living vicariously through a romance novel he wrote as a _joke._

 

He has to do better, this time.

 

***

 

Cassandra’s first reaction when she sees Adora and a smug looking Varric is to assume the worst. He has never proved her wrong.

 

Instead.

 

Oh, instead her treacherous heart leaps in her chest at the sight of Varric’s gift.

 

The newest chapter of _Swords and Shields_.

 

Maker it is humiliating how strong and immediate her need is for the book he waves under her nose. It holds such promise, such potential. The Knight-Captain was falsely accused, torn from her lover again and she has to know whether fate allows them to be together.

 

Adora watches them both with her strange black eyes, and Cassandra should feel at least annoyed that the Inquisitor told _Varric,_ of all people. Varric who watches her with eyes that smirk.

 

Reining herself in is difficult. But she cannot bear to let Varric see the depth of her need.

 

He turns his back on her.

 

Cassandra’s heart plummets, and desire wins out over her restraint.

 

The book is heavy, carefully and colourfully bound and it is nothing like her other books. It is _beautiful._

 

“Aren’t you going to thank the Inquisitor?”

 

Varric’s mocking voice interrupts her dreaming.

 

She turns around again just in time to be confused at the annoyance on Adora’s face. In all their time together, the Inquisitor has had a marked preference for the dwarf. It is rare for him to incur her ire.

 

Varric’s next words leave Cassandra gaping.

 

“Tell your friends, if you have any.”

 

Oh.

 

She presses her lips closed, stands taller and takes refuge in the safe, in the familiar. In her anger. Adora hesitates. One long nailed hand rests gently on Cassandra’s shoulder.

 

“I must return to my training, Inquisitor.”

 

It is curt, and hurtful, and not at all what Cassandra wants to say to her.

 

_You are my friend, are you not?_

Cassandra stays at the training grounds until sunset.

 

****

 

Guilt gnaws at Varric’s stomach. Cassandra’s name against his shoulder feels like a brand. The mark of a traitor.

 

She stays at the training grounds more often now. Adora does not take them on missions together unless she has no other choice.

 

Varric can’t bear to think about it, doesn’t. It is one more fuckup in a long list.

 

Sometimes he sees Cassandra reading in the shade of a tree, sword at her side as she steals a few moments’ rest.

 

His book in her hands, long fingers lovingly turning the pages. She cradles it gently. Smiles, when no one is looking.

 

Apologies crowd his mouth.

 

She is steel and fury, and a deep hurt he doesn’t want to see.

 

He can’t speak to her.

 

Cassandra comes back from a mission without her breastplate, with a set of cracked ribs. Varric watches her ride in alongside Adora, face tense and pale. No one follows her up to her quarters above the forge. The Inquisitor watches her go, and when her eyes meet his, Varric feels small. His gaze swings back to the tall figure making her way slowly and stiffly across the courtyard.

 

He could help her. He could offer her comfort, if she needed it. If he could take that first step. If she would take his hand.

 

Cullen falls into step next to Cassandra, blond head inclined towards her.

 

In the soft light of the courtyard, they make a striking pair.  

 

Whatever he says to her stops Cassandra cold. There’s no mistaking the smile on her face as she looks up at their Commander, nor the fondness on his face as she takes his arm.

 

They make their way across the rest of the courtyard, disappear into the forge.

 

“ _Ah_ -”

 

Adora flattens her mouth. It is too late though. Varric has heard that soft cry, heard the ache. Their eyes meet for the last time, and Adora turns her back on him.

 

Varric wonders who her heart is breaking for.

 

****

 

Adora is quiet. Cassandra cannot help but notice, cannot ignore the sadness that hangs around their Inquisitor like a shroud. Despite all the good she does, there are many who see Adora’s great height and her curving horns, and cry out in fear. At first, that is what Cassandra thinks it is- few see Adora’s soft heart, or the kindness in her dark eyes. Their Inquisitor is respected, not loved. The days pass and Adora’s smiles become fewer. Cassandra’s concern grows.

 

But she cannot reach out.

 

Varric’s words eat at her.

 

There are few she can claim as friend. These days, the list grows ever shorter. Cullen is the only name there. Even that friendship is too new, too delicate. Based on their shared interests, and his reliance on her strength.

 

Varric avoids her, and it is no surprise.

 

Adora avoids her, and that _is_ a surprise.

 

Cassandra had thought that they had begun to forgive the past, to forge a new friendship based on understanding. On respect. Adora is never anything less than polite, in her quiet way. But she has drawn back, retreated inwards. She does not seek out Cassandra’s company, and the few times Cassandra had gone to try and mend the rift, the chill around the Inquisitor had been too much.

 

It is intensely frustrating, and Cassandra has never dealt well with frustration.

  
The training dummies need to be replaced three times that week.

 

****

 

Varric aches, unendingly. Loss has always stuck close to him, dogging his footsteps.

 

For a man who’s finally got what he wanted, he’s miserable. Cassandra ignores him, and he’s not sure when that became a bad thing. His heart changed without him knowing. Not that he loves her. Not that. But at some point he’d started to appreciate her. He’d written a damn book for her, had tried his hardest to make it good.

 

Even he’s not sure why he said what he did.

 

It can’t be unsaid, cannot be fixed. Instead he has to live with it, and that’s difficult.

 

Particularly when Cassandra and Cullen are so happy together. Their stalwart commander always looks strained and serious, unless Cassandra is with him. Then he looks strained, and serious, but happy. Relieved, as though her presence eases a great burden from his shoulders. Though it seems the more relaxed Cullen is, the more unhappy Adora is. Even Josephine can’t manage to bring a smile to the Inquisitor’s face, and Maker knows she tries.

 

Of the inner circle, only Iron Bull seems to be happy.

 

And the Kid. But Maker only knows what’s going through his head at any time.

 

Since he’s in Adora’s black books, Varric gets a lot of work done for the Merchant’s Guild, sends off a few letters on Josephine’s behalf, and writes the next chapter of _Hard in Hightown_. He’s disgustingly productive, but none of it is really satisfying. Especially as his walk from the Great Hall to the Herald’s Rest takes him past the training grounds, and Cassandra. At least he knows why Adora never takes him out on missions anymore. It’s clear Cassandra has no idea why she’s suddenly fallen from grace.

 

She lunges, swings her sword through the air and neatly lops a dummy’s head off. Varric’s seen the carpenters create those dummies. They’re built specifically for Cassandra, and are twice as sturdy as the standard ones.

 

He could speak to her. He can still reach out to her, and maybe the fist around his heart will relax.

 

Instead he goes to find Adora.

 

He fucked up. But the Seeker hasn’t, and there’s no reason she should suffer.

  
  
***

 

Adora is a hard woman to find. Varric searches high and low throughout the keep, wonders if perhaps she’s left Skyhold entirely. But her mounts are all still in the stables (even if Dennet isn’t too thrilled about that), and all her possessions are still in her rooms. He almost gives up, until one of the guards points out a horned figure sitting atop one of the keep’s wrecked walls.

 

It is a bitch and a half to get up there, and Varric’s heart and stomach threaten to revolt the entire time. But he has to do this, has to speak with Adora and put things right.

 

“Inquisitor,” he says casually. As if he hadn’t nearly fallen to his death several times. As if she’s not perched on what’s less a wall and more a pile of strategically balanced rocks.

 

She turns her head, and Varric notes that the little gold caps are gone from her horns. So is the kohl around her eyes.

 

Their Inquisitor is so young.

 

“Varric,” she says.

 

They stare at each other. Even now, Adora has to look down a little at him.

 

All his planned words fly away on the chilly breeze, in the face of Adora’s sad eyes. He sits down next to her, instead.

  
  
“Shit, isn’t it?”

 

He can feel Adora looking at him, can sense the tremulous connection in the air. Two hearts suffering the same thing.

  
  
“It is awful,” she says. One hand presses against her heart. “It aches.”

 

“Yeah, it does.”

 

She exhales, ragged and shaking. Tears slip down her cheeks.

 

“Caught me without a handkerchief, Spike.”

 

Adora chuckles weakly, wipes the tears from her eyes.

 

“Spike?”

 

“Just trying it out, Inquisitor,” Varric says lightly.

 

“Try harder,” Adora manages to say.

 

Her lip trembles, and Varric’s again reminded of how young she is, how alone.

 

When he moves closer, Adora rests her head on his shoulder. He lets her cry until she’s done, until her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are red. Up on the wall, there’s no one to see.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra's friendships are important.

Varric plagues her. 

 

There is no better word for it, for she suffers without ease. Even Adora’s tentative efforts at friendship cannot soothe the ache, cannot loosen the fist clamped around her heart. 

 

She cannot  _ breathe _ . 

 

It is foolish. The conceit of poets and cheap novelists. But it is still true, and it is infuriating. Cassandra is not accustomed to such things, to having no possible recourse save time. There is no action she can take, no path to forge or follow. For once, it seems she is incapable of blazing ahead, of  _ making _ things happen. 

 

What she wants she cannot take, it cannot be brought about by sheer force or brute determination. Perhaps a different woman would know how, would understand what to do to ease the pressure in her chest. Even in a thousand lifetimes, Cassandra would never be that woman. Instead she must simply live around the pain. 

 

The training dummies suffer with her. As do the blacksmiths who must repair her armour, who begin to teach her how to make her own repairs on the smaller rents and tears her armour sustains. It is fulfilling work, to sweat in the fires of the forge, to see the dents and cracks become whole again. Cassandra works. She trains, and learns, and somewhere along the line Adora begins to speak with her again, takes her on missions and consults with her. The ache of her heart joins the small clamour of old injuries she’s always faintly aware of. 

 

Varric smiles at her. 

 

Tells her a joke. 

 

Laughs. 

 

The fist clenches around her heart, expands to her lungs, to her throat.

 

She does  _ not _ love him. Should not, despite what fate has decreed. Many live their lives without their soulmate, and it does not mean they love any less, that their lives are not full of joy. She can join their ranks. 

 

Varric watches her with shadowed eyes. She sees, even though he thinks he’s careful. How can she not? He is at her side in battle, despite being more suited to long range attacks, to the subtle knife. Yet she turns to find him there, covering her back when she didn’t know she needed it, when she least expects to see him. He and Adora smile at her in the same way, with something twisting in their eyes. 

 

It is too much, and Cassandra yearns. The Inquisition is a great responsibility, a necessary and vital cause. But it is a constant grind. The open road beckons. Once, she was only a Seeker and she went where she was needed, could come and go as she pleased. Now she is caught. Even as Right Hand, her freedoms were greater. She cannot leave the Inquisition, not until their work is done. But there are times, in the coldest hours of the night where she lies awake and wishes that she could simply  _ go. _ It is her greatest shame, one that eats at her. One that makes her fight harder, that makes her throw herself into battle with greater abandon. She will not let it win. Will not cave to the whispers that tell her she could go, that she could serve the Inquisition just as well were she far away from Skyhold. 

 

Cullen understands. Of all people, he understands the ways that trials might eat into the very heart of you. His troubles distract her. It is always easier to advise a friend than it is to take advice, Cassandra remarks wryly. Cullen’s smile is a parody. They are both aware of the lyrium kit sitting in a drawer of his desk. She’d throw it out, would smash it from the highest tower if it would help. But it would not. He needs to choose, to continue choosing, and she will not take that away. 

 

In all the world, Cullen is the only one who knows that Varric is her soulmate. He understands that too. Shows her his own name. Cassandra swears never to tell. 

 

***

 

They are on a mission, somewhere in the unending Hinterlands. Cassandra sighs, feels the cool air brush against her skin, and cannot help but smile. The Hinterlands may not end, but her spat with Varric has. For now. Adora smiles more, and they’re not eager to spoil her good mood. Her eyes are heavily lined with kohl again, which Cassandra takes as a good sign. The gold jewellery has yet to reappear, but Cassandra’s sure with time their Inquisitor will return to herself. Whatever had happened, she’s glad it’s waning- it had been awful to watch as Adora retreated further into herself. To have no idea how to  _ help _ , to be unsure if her help would be wanted. 

 

Adora reaches the top of the hill, and curses. Before them is another boggy stretch of land, peppered with boulders. 

 

“Are you sure we’re not walking in circles, Spike?”

 

Cassandra rolls her eyes. He and Dorian are a terrible combination on long journeys. 

 

“Ah yes. Exactly how I expected to spend my time when I joined the Inquisition,” Dorian says. “On a week long hunt for someone’s grandmother’s favourite druffalo.”

 

“That’s not why we’re here,” Cassandra scolds. 

 

“It isn’t?” 

 

Varric looks scandalized. 

 

“Do  _ not _ encourage him, dwarf.” 

 

He and Dorian grin at one another. 

 

Cassandra shares a look of long suffering fondness with Adora. 

 

“Well, enough chattering,” Adora says. “We’ve got to reunite a druffalo with its owner.” 

 

Cassandra groans. 

 

***

 

The air in the tent is tense. 

 

Adora fidgets in her bedroll. Sighs. 

 

Rolls over, and adjusts her pillow. 

 

“What is it?” Cassandra asks. 

 

Adora lets out a long breath. Rolls over again. 

 

Perhaps speaking was the wrong choice. But this has gone on for far too long. If the Inquisitor has something to say, Cassandra would rather she spoke. 

 

“I’m sorry, Cassandra.” 

 

Shock stills her tongue. 

 

“For what?”

 

Adora’s bedroll rustles, and in the dim light diffusing through the tent, Cassandra can see her long fingers plucking at a loose thread. 

 

“I- have not been a good friend to you,” she says.

 

Her voice is thick with misery. 

 

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” she says again. 

 

She is very young, Cassandra realizes. If the strain of the Inquisition wears away at her, how much worse must it be for their young Inquisitor?

 

She has been thoughtless.

 

“You do not need to be,” Cassandra says. Reaches out to take Adora’s hand. “It is alright.” 

 

Adora’s fingers squeeze hers. 

 

“I am sorry, as well,” Cassandra says. “I did not- I should not have let you feel alone.” 

 

It is a hard thing to admit. That she had failed. That she had not  _ tried. _

 

They are quiet, for a while. 

 

“Are we-”

 

“Friends? Of course,” Cassandra says.

 

Adora squeezes her hand one more time before drawing away. 

 

“Thank you. Good night Cassandra.” 

 

“Good night, Adora.” 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember last chapter I said things wouldn't be so sad?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric thinks some serious thoughts.

They’re always busy and so Varric doesn’t notice the change for days. Not in the others- he’s quick to spot moods and tempers swinging- but in himself. It strikes him in the most mundane way possible. He is happy to get out of bed, to begin a day that will likely end with him on the way to some forsaken patch of dirt to fight everything from people to animals to demons, and he’s _happy_ about it. Not about the dirt and the demons and killing things. Happy to be up and _helping_ , to be with people who care about shit. It’s not Kirkwall, and these people are not his family. But this too has value. 

Cassandra smiles at him on her way to the practice dummies. She spots him crossing the courtyard to the great hall, and _smiles_. 

It’s infectious. Varric finds himself settling at his table still grinning. She looks well. So does Adora. 

For that matter, Ruffles looks pretty cheerful herself. Josephine crosses the hall to intercept Adora, her face suffused with a soft light that anyone could see-

_Oh._

Varric knows the signs well enough. Ruffles tucks a loose curl behind one of her ears, looks up at Adora from beneath her lashes. Stands just that little bit too close. 

Adora says something. Josephine’s laughter rings out, draws attention from several Orlesians and one bemused Fereldan. As the two women turn towards the door that leads to the War Room and Josephine’s office, Varric notes that Adora’s ears are pink. 

An interesting development. And a good sign- Spike’s young and Varric knew she’d recover quickly enough, but it’s still reassuring to see. 

***

Cassandra’s signature is scrawled across his shoulder. It’s not something Varric thinks about often, something he makes an effort not to think about. Before he’d met Cassandra, it was a blessing that his soulmate’s signature was in a place he couldn’t see. Afterwards he’d considered it a damn miracle that it wasn’t somewhere he’d be forced to see it. Bad enough having to be in the same room with Cassandra.

Varric stretches, curls his shoulders inwards until he can reach the spot where her name is. It should feel different than the rest of his skin, he thinks. Remembers Merrill calling it _spiky_. Wonders about his name on Cassandra’s skin. Where it might be placed. If she thinks about where her name might lie on his body. 

He might be a little drunk. 

Adora had confided in him about Cassandra and Curly arguing in the forge. Cullen’s fear that the lyrium would win. Cassandra’s unshakeable belief that it would not. 

There was a shadow of pain in Adora’s eyes, in the way her mouth curled up into a smile when she remarked that it was a good thing they had each other. That she was happy for them. 

If she says it enough, it will be true. Words shape the world, and Adora is reshaping hers. 

Varric shrugs his shirt back on. Doesn’t think about the way his regrets empty him out. Fills his tankard instead. 

His name, black and striking against the smooth olive of Cassandra’s skin. Does it slash across her back, her shoulder? Maybe it slides along her stomach, or twines around one of her ankles. Does she touch it, and think of him?

He wants her to. 

The world tilts beneath his feet, and Varric’s only partly sure it’s the booze and not the realization that’s just struck him.

He closes his eyes, leans back in his chair. He’s not thinking about a woman who hates him. 

Her fingers would be calloused. Rough from years of swordplay, with her history written across them. They’d dance across the letters on his back. 

A shiver rocks through Varric’s body. 

He’s not going to think about this. He doesn’t _want_ her. 

His beer is warm. Varric drains the tankard.

She smiled at him, in the courtyard. Cassandra had looked up and for some Maker forsaken reason she’d grinned. Her whole face lit up.

Hope is worse than resignation. 

She might like him a little more now, but it’s not love. It can’t be love. 

Even if it is, his feelings don’t matter. Hers do, and Cassandra’s heart is elsewhere.

The beer left in the pitcher is warm and unappealing. Varric drains it, and stumbles over to his bed. He’d thought pushing forty meant he’d given up on stupid behaviour like this. He’d thought he wouldn’t ever end up like his parents- hurting people with one hand, drinking with the other. 

Being wrong _aches_.

He never gets used to it.

Varric buries himself in his blankets. 

Cassandra smiles, sun streaming down through the trees to illuminate her. 

Varric resolves to try harder. Tomorrow.

***

Varric feels the way a nug looks. To put it politely. It makes a sick kind of sense that he’d drink himself to sleep only to be woken up at the crack of dawn. 

He puts a bolt through some bandit’s throat, and admits he feels a little cranky. Cassandra’s not with them for once. Adora chats happily with Iron Bull as they smash their way through the remaining brigands. Sun is in his eyes, people are trying to murder him, and the only upside is that they aren’t in the Fallow Mire. Yet. There’s still time for this day to go from bad to worse. 

Immediately, Varric regrets that thought. Adora yelps. Her dark hair straggles into her face, sticks to the slick of blood running down her forehead. 

The last asshole hits the dirt permanently, and Varric hustles over to check on Adora. Bull’s laughing, so she has to be more or less unharmed. Adora’s sitting on a small boulder, grimacing as Bull’s gentle fingers probe at her scalp. He sluices some water on the wound, and rusty water runs in rivulets down Adora’s face. 

“You’ll be fine, Boss. Get the ambassador to kiss it better,” he says. 

Adora flushes, and flicks damp hair out of her face. 

For a second, Varric thinks she’s about to reprimand him. But Adora only looks up (way up) and asks:

“Do you think she would?” 

Her voice is wistful. 

“One way to find out, Spike.” 

Bull nods his agreement. He meets Varric’s eyes and winks. Or blinks. Varric’s not sure. 

“Good advice,” he rumbles.

There’s implication in his tone. So that was probably a wink then. Bull manages to see a lot, despite spending most of his time in the tavern. Either that or it’s Varric’s own conscience. Spies. It’s all fun and game until you lose one.

His head’s still pounding. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap in updating!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra thinks about things, Cullen listens.

Cassandra wants to hit something. She’s been walloping a training dummy for the past hour. It isn’t the _right_ something, and it’s increasingly frustrating. The wooden dummy shudders beneath her blows. One or two strong hits and it will collapse. Cassandra eyes it and decides that seeing the dummy fall apart would be less than satisfying. Nothing satisfies her. Prayer does not help, violence is not the answer, and if she could find someone it wouldn’t be a hassle to bother with, she’d take Bull’s advice and see if sex would help. Everyone irritates her, and the idea of having _relations_ with anyone in the Keep makes her want to hit more things. Repeatedly. 

Cassandra counts the hours until duty might be put aside for the day, and she can take matters into her own hands, for whatever ease that’s worth. 

Of course, since deciding on that course, fate decrees that many things should keep her from it. 

“Cassandra!” Adora calls out. 

She dashes across the courtyard in a breathless whirl of floating fabrics and jingling metal. There is a fine scarf wound in her dark hair, and new beads dangle from one horn-tip. The scarf is a delicate gold, and the beads iridescent blue. 

It would seem things with Josephine are progressing well, if Adora is wearing small tokens. 

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra replies. “What may I do for you?”

Serious as she means to be, a smile teases at her lips. Adora is so clearly happy, happier than she’d been in months. It is _good_ , to see her so. Her cheer colours the entire hold. Perhaps that has more to do with spring’s arrival, but Cassandra doubts it. The people love their Inquisitor. Her happiness is theirs. 

“I’m going off to the Hissing Wastes, would you come along? Varric’s going too,” Adora says.

Her fingers worry at the scarf’s fringe, and it’s really too delicate for that sort of treatment. Cassandra reaches out to still her hands. The tips of Adora’s ears go pink. It is fairer not to comment on her obvious nervousness, and so Cassandra refrains. 

“Varric and I are-” here Cassandra hesitates. “We are much better, Inquisitor. You do not need to worry.” 

“That’s good!” Adora beams. 

Cassandra blinks. 

“I suppose it is,” she says. 

“We’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Adora tells her. “We’ll be gone a while.”

“That is fine,” Cassandra says. “Is that all?”

“It is. I will see you in the morning, Cassandra,” Adora says. Then she hesitates. “Will...will the Commander be alright, with you gone?”

It is a strange question, but not a surprising one. Cullen’s struggle with the effects of lyrium withdrawal are a badly kept secret in the keep. It is only sensible that Adora would be concerned with his progress. 

“Cullen is much better, and stronger than even he believes,” Cassandra says. “He will no doubt be glad to see me go, that I will no longer be hovering over his shoulder.” 

She and Adora share a smile, and Cassandra is struck by the brightness of it. Surely Adora has smiled before, has been happy prior to this.

“That’s, that’s good. I’m glad he has you,” Adora says. Her smile is a little off. 

Cassandra blinks, not sure how to interpret that remark, and the dimming of Adora’s previous cheer.

Adora turns on her heel and darts off again, towards the great hall and, undoubtedly, Josephine. 

Cassandra tilts her face up towards the sun. It is mild out, and her restlessness has ebbed somewhat with the promise of something to do. 

_Varric is coming._

The very thought of his name sends a shiver down her spine. She is _drawn_ towards thoughts of him, confusing in their intensity. Not for the first time, Cassandra wishes she could forget the matter of _soul mates_ , of fated love. How different would her life be, were she and Varric not meant for one another? Would they be friends, would forgiveness come easier if their soul-marks did not weigh so much? 

Her feet carry her over familiar ground, through to the safety of the forge, into whose heat few venture. What must his family have thought, seeing a name such as hers, a scrawling signature in defiance of all her noble tutors’ efforts. Had his parents looked for her family name and wondered at the cruelty of their Ancestors, to assign their son a human woman? Cassandra can imagine the reaction her own family would have had, finding a Dwarf assigned to her. Shock, dismay at such a _low_ connection, and then never spoken of again. Perhaps she would have found herself traded in marriage to another, for political power, for gold, for _status_ equal in value to a daughter. 

Cassandra’s mouth crimps into a bitter line. It is a harsh thing to think about one’s own parents, surely. But they are dead, sacrificed to ambition and hope, and cannot defend themselves. A more diverting thought is what _she_ might have done, had things been different. 

Cassandra mounts the stairs to her quarters, fingers working at the ties and buttons of her sweaty training clothes. With her mind elsewhere, she misses the last step and stumbles. 

Would she have defied her family for an unknown soulmate? What might have happened, had she stormed into House Tethras as a gawky young woman and declared herself Varric’s soulmate?

It is all moot, anyways. The past happened as it did, and no speculation or pointless daydreaming can alter it. 

The wash water in her basin is blessedly cool, rinsing away thoughts of a young girl and a young man free from bitterness.

****

Cullen slumps in his chair. Fine strands of silver thread through the curling hair at his temples, glitter in the stubble on his chin. It is a remarkably disreputable look, Cassandra thinks. He looks tired, but not worn thin. A bit of his usual humour sneaks into his expression. 

“I am in more danger from Josephine’s paperwork than anything else,” he drawls. “It’s likely to bore me to death before you return.” 

Cassandra rolls her eyes. 

“You must delegate,” she says. “You have an aide, do you not?”

Cullen snorts. “She’s more concerned with fighting Red Templars than struggling with my paperwork.” 

Early morning sun streams through the gaps in Cullen’s ceiling. Cassandra swirls her tea in its battered camp mug. Identical mugs are scattered about the office, holding down precarious stacks of paper. 

“What about Varric?” Cassandra asks. Her voice sounds strange to her own ears. Varric’s name on her lips. 

Cullen arches an eyebrow. 

“Ask _Varric_ to do my paperwork?” he laughs. “It’s not a bad idea, except that Josephine would skewer us both.” 

Cassandra smiles. 

Cullen grins back. “I see. Dispose of him through Josephine? That’s terrible, Cassandra.” 

“I do not want to dispose of him,” Cassandra says. Her tea is cold. It tastes bitter on the way down. 

Silence steals over them. Dust drifts through the splintered light from the roof. Cullen watches her with somber eyes. Cassandra turns her mug in her hands, eyes fixed on it. 

Cullen clears his throat. A hint of pink tints his cheeks. 

“Do you… ah-” he says. Rubs the back of his neck. The blush stains deeper. 

Cassandra stares into her mug, wondering if it would be better to tell _someone._ The words stick in her throat. The shame of it all, to struggle against something so fiercely only to succumb without knowing. 

“I am… I have-” she starts. Exhales. 

Unclenches her fingers from the mug. 

Cullen’s face is sympathetic. 

“I have feelings for him,” Cassandra says, miserable. Her ribcage itches where Varric’s signature is seared into her skin. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long gap in updates. In a major slump. No promises that this means I'll post more, just that I will try. Thank you for reading <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fighting happens

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Cassandra says, breaking the strained silence. 

The plains are too wide and far too open, and Varric is too near by far. Cassandra has the sinking feeling that there she will never again be too far away from Varric. He lingers beneath her skin, in the ink-black letters scrolling across her ribcage. 

Dorian smirks, as though he knows her mind. As if he could. 

Cassandra glares at him, for good measure. 

“I’m imagining what you would look like in a dress,” Dorian says. His voice rings out across the plain, bell-like and droll. 

Varric says nothing. Cassandra is glad of it, happy his barbed tongue is safely behind his teeth, relieved to not hear some sharp remark about the Seeker in a dress. Dorian catches her watching Varric’s back. There is a guilty sort of look about him, as if his question was less for his own absurd sense of humour and more for…

It is only Dorian indulging himself. If he is unhappy it is because his attempt to goad herself and Varric into a squabble has come to naught. 

Cassandra falls back, telling herself she is more suitable to guarding the rear of their party than Dorian. They are still far too exposed and Varric is far too close for her peace of mind. When he is near, her thoughts erupt into a riot of noise and doubt and anger. If they were not fated partners, would her feelings be the same? It is not possible for her to have idealized the dwarf, and yet it should not be possible for her to want-

Whatever it is she wants. 

Perhaps she simply misses the freedom to want. 

A strange thought. She is a woman grown, one who knows her own mind, her own needs. Except in this. Except for Varric, and their bond. 

A heavy sigh slips from her lips.

She is confusing the man with his works. That is all. In Varric’s writing she had found the things lacking in her own life, had discovered an escape through the words he crafted. He had opened a door through which one could see heroes, romance, adventure, stalwart friendships, betrayals… Things which, in fairness, did exist in her own life. Yet it was different. In reality one had to deal with loose ends, with finding your own closure, loves which come to nothing, friendships ended through death or distance, all the mess and untidiness of living. With books, with Varric’s books, there is life but not the everyday kind. 

Cassandra lifts her gaze, seeking out Varric’s stocky form silhouetted in the bright sunlight. He stops on the crest of a small rise. Her heart beats. Varric looks back. Cassandra looks away. 

****

It is too hot. The sun beats down on his head and shoulders, baking him in the armour Adora insists he wear. Varric rolls his shoulders, trying to dislodge his sweaty tunic from his back. Behind him somewhere, Dorian and Cassandra bicker. It’s too hot for him to give a damn, and despite it being in no way her fault, he’s pissed off at Cassandra for the location of her signature on his skin. If it weren’t scrawled across his back, he might be able to gain some relief by taking his damn shirt off. Then maybe he wouldn’t be dehydrating and stewing in his own juices at the same time. 

“Varric?” Adora’s voice floats towards him.

The world looks soupy, which is a bad sign. They aren’t far from the nearest campsite. All he has to do is hold out until then, when he can drink and wash, and not think about Cass- the Seeker.

Maker’s Breath he has to stop thinking of her as Cassandra. She can’t be anything other than the Seeker to him. Cassandra is someone else, someone whose name is written across his skin, whose soul is tied with his. Someone real. 

He is far too hot. 

“Spike?” Varric answers. 

Angry voices catch his ear. 

They don’t belong to the Seeker or Dorian. 

“Shit,” Varric says. 

Adora’s staff blooms with light. She squares her feet. Varric unholsters Bianca. A quick glance behind him shows nothing but rolling hills, grass slowly dying in the unrelenting sun. They have outpaced Dorian and the Seeker. 

A lot of things happen at once. Adora unleashes a bolt of lightning. Burnt air is thick in Varric’s mouth. The first Templar turns the corner, phasing in and out of existence as he goes. His body is grotesque, distended by red lyrium. Jutting blood red crystals pierce his skin. Three more men, gaunt and red eyed, stagger behind him. Varric plants a crossbow bolt square in the chest of one. It barely slows the man down. Instead the man fixes his hollow red gaze on Varric, and disappears. 

“Go left!” Adora shouts. Magic crackles around her. 

Despite her warning, lightning ripples over his head. He’s moving too slowly, reactions dulled by the closeness of the air. Varric takes a breath, ratchets another bolt into readiness, and raises Bianca. He can do this. He can hold out until Dorian and the Seeker catch up. 

The song calls to him. Sweet and low and promising. It promises so much. He can hear the lyrium beating along with his heart. 

A bright, sharp chill cuts across his shoulder. Varric jerks away in time to keep his head. The Templar takes an unsteady step. Crossbow bolts sprout from his chest. The Templar takes another step. Stops. Varric shoots him again. It takes an age for the man to fall, for the red light to leave his eyes. 

A familiar battle cry sears the air. 

Blood sluices down Varric’s shoulder. Red lyrium sings. Cassandra smashes into an unsuspecting Templar. The noise of metal clashing echoes in his ears. It is too damn hot out. Varric’s head pounds. His mouth is dry and gluey.

Maker’s ass he’s happy to see Cassandra. 

She and Adora fling themselves against the massive Behemoth, a cacophony of screams and metal and the smell of burning. Beneath it all, the song. 

Varric staggers back, tries to gain some distance from the main melee. A straggling Templar shudders, body twitching and contorting as red lyrium breaks free from the thin sheath of his skin. It is disgusting. Varric watches, transfixed. Sluggish blood drips from the wounds caused by the lyrium crystals, slides over the man’s skin like syrup. The Templar’s head snaps to a strange angle, crystals jutting out of his neck. Crystals grow out of him, already replacing his left arm. 

One of Varric’s bolts glances off the cluster of crystals growing from the man’s chest. Reality jitters. One moment the Templar is safely out of range, the next Varric’s stumbling over his own feet, dagger raised to parry the sharp edge of the Templar’s crystalline arm. 

“Not good,” Varric grunts out. 

His knife squeals against the Templar’s arm. With a silent apology, Varric slams Bianca into the Templar’s midsection. It can’t be good for her mechanisms, but being impaled isn’t good for _his_ mechanisms. He flings himself away, just missing the Templar’s flailing arms. The exposed collar of his tunic catches on a rough shard of lyrium, and tears. 

“Varric!” Cassandra’s voice drowns out the battle, the lyrium song. 

The Templar groans, gibbering some nonsense with what’s left of its humanity. Cassandra’s mace smashes into the monster’s skull. Varric gags at the sucking sound as Cassandra yanks it free from the pulped mess atop the former Templar’s shoulders.

It is too much.

Varric’s hands fumble at the buckles on his breastplate. He needs it off, needs to feel cool air against his skin. He pulls, yanks until he hears something tear. The breastplate peels away from him, clattering to the ground. Behind him, there’s a gasp. 

“Sparkler, I’m not going to pose for a picture so look your fill,” Varric says into the strangled silence. 

A cool breeze kisses his bare shoulders. 

“Cassandra? Dorian? Is Varric all-” Adora says, breathless. She chokes back the last word. 

“Cassandra-” Dorian says. He sounds horrified. 

Shattering crystal drowns out the rest of Dorian’s sentence. Varric rolls onto his back in time to see Cassandra storm off, her mace embedded in the dead Templar’s chest. 

Adora looks down at him, her eyes shock-wide, her face pale beneath the blood and dirt. Dorian’s hand his pressed over his mouth. 

“You’re soulmates,” Adora says. “You...and Cassandra?” 

Her voice shakes. Varric stares at her blankly. His discarded armour lies at his feet, bloodstained and battered. Half his shirt stuck to the inside. 

“Yes,” Varric says. There isn’t anything else he can say. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for sticking with me it is appreciated <3


End file.
